


A Future Foretold and Unaccepted

by petyrbaealish



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (salty about the plot not the acting), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, I'm still salty about Petyr's death/the show's treatment of Sansa and Petyr's characters in general, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, obv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 12:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18591190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish
Summary: (other (salty) working title: We’re Better Than That)Canon AU where Sansa has a prophetic dream that tells her all about what will happen to her and Petyr in the next years of their lives (aka what happens after they leave the Eyrie). She is horrified, he is there to comfort her. Starts out fairly dark, ends pretty sweet and fluffy. With some salt in between - hopefully it's a nice treat ;)





	A Future Foretold and Unaccepted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyrawinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyrawinter/gifts).



> Dedicated to lyrawinter for her incomparable and invaluable friendship. I wrote it for her for her birthday months and months ago and never got around to posting it on ao3 (I shared it with her, just didn't post it). She came up with the excellent prompt/premise :).

A quick slash of the dagger and blood bloomed at his throat. As he slumped to the ground, the life leaving those mossy eyes as quickly as the blood pooled upon the floor, a girl at once intimately familiar and yet a complete stranger, watched. Her breaths came deep, tears silently tracking down pale cheeks. And yet she’d commanded his death.

Sansa woke with a start, choking on the sobs violently wracking her body. Firm, yet gentle hands gathered her close, words hushed from lips in a familiar husky rasp. He was here, holding her, not dead upon the ground. She could feel him, his heart still beating so steadily beneath his tunic, though perhaps rather quicker than she thought it ought to be. 

But the dream had seemed so real.

It had been merely a dream, right? Even now, having clearly woken up, she wasn’t quite sure.

She felt as if she had been asleep an age, so much had she dreamt. So much had she seen. And unlike most of her dreams, which lost their detail and substance so soon after waking, this one seemed to linger with unparalleled permanence. So many pleasant dreams lost to the daytime, and yet this one held fast. She wished it hadn’t.

She wished she could forget.

The things she’d seen and done. The things she’d felt and heard. What she’d lost. What little she’d gained, and at what price. She couldn’t reconcile any of it with what she knew of herself, of her life, and of Petyr. She couldn’t reconcile herself with that cold creature who’d sentenced the man she’d come to know so well to death. Nor could she reconcile him to the choices he’d made. He was a cleverer man than that. 

And he cared for her, did he not? He wouldn’t risk her safety in such a way.

She was certain he wouldn’t.

Yet in the dream, he had.

None of it made any sense, and she hated what she had seen, what she had become. Hated what she had done. And so she sobbed harder, heedless of the comfort he tried to give her.

“Shh, sweetling. You’re all right. It was just a dream.”

She shook her head as best she could with it buried in the crook of his shoulder and cried harder, because she was certain it wasn’t just a dream. There was more to it. Prophecy perhaps. Or magic. Or both. “It wasn’t,” she protested, the words muffled against his tunic.

A soft chuckle rumbled through his chest and throat, tickling her cheek and catching her off guard enough that she stopped crying for a moment. “I can assure you it was. You’ve been abed these past three days, caught in feverish sleep. I’ve been with you nearly the entirety of it.”

Surprised, Sansa pulled away. “You have? But what of your duties as Lord Protector?”

The right side of his mouth twitched. “I’ve been with you, not completely idle. I accomplished what I needed to do well enough. As to the rest, seeing to your needs and health are of far more import to me.” His smirk grew more pronounced. “Did you think I sat by your bedside all this time, simply watching you sleep?”

Further distracted from her former distress, Sansa blushed. “No.”

“Indeed, I could have. You sleep quite prettily, when you’re not thrashing about. Though I much prefer you awake.”

Her blush deepened and she looked away, not quite sure what to do with such words. A sudden scene flashed before her eyes, of words uttered. Words of declaration spoken with such sorrow. He’d loved her. More than anyone. 

She began to cry again.

A hand found her cheek, turning her face gently back to look at him. “And what could I have said, to bring on such a reaction, hmm?” His tone was still teasing, hoping to coax her into forgetting her grief again. 

Grey green eyes found hers and she remembered what it had looked like, to see the life leave them, and shut her own eyes, unable to bear it. “Is this about your dream?” he prompted. 

She nodded, then shook her head. He furrowed his brow at her, miming confusion, even as amusement shone in his eyes. How could she even begin to explain? She had to admit, she didn’t know him as well as she wanted to know him, nor perhaps as well as she ought, all things considering. But she didn’t think she had a hope of persuading him as to her dream not really being a dream at all.

Sansa wished he would say something, but he’d always had a tendency towards quiet when he wanted to draw her out. He’d told her himself, that sometimes silence flourished better even than questioning, in gaining answers. It worked now as it had so many times before, for she couldn’t bear to give in to the silence for long — silence allowed her to dwell more on what she’d dreamed. “I don’t think it was just a dream.”

He didn’t laugh at her — she hadn’t thought he would. He’d always treated her with far more respect than most had given her, talking with her as an equal. He did look merely sympathetic though — and not at all as if he believed her pronouncement to be anything more than conjecture. And why wouldn’t he? She hadn’t offered any proof. “Dreams can sometimes feel very real. How inconvenient it is, though, when a nightmare feels as such. Your nightmare must have been quite horrible, to provoke such a reaction.”

Sansa swallowed. “Yes.”

He smiled at her then — a true smile that reached his eyes, a rarity indeed. “I wouldn’t let it trouble you. Sometimes a fevered mind can invent things it normally wouldn’t.” His thumb chased an errant tear as it fled down her cheek.

She allowed that, and yet…. There were things she’d seen. Not all of it had been from the future. Some things, she was certain, had already happened. She’d seen her father, still alive and well, talking with Petyr in King’s Landing. Her father had confided in Petyr, who had tried to counsel him against the action he had inevitably taken, had even offered Ned Stark a far more sensible course. She’d seen how Petyr had betrayed her father, too. But she’d already known that, despite not having been present at the time — King’s Landing’s most valued currency was gossip, and her father’s demise and the reasons behind it had been very prominent topics amongst the castle’s inhabitants. Sansa had never participated in it herself, but she’d heard plenty, from nobility to servants alike. 

In these views into the past, she thought she might have a way of convincing Petyr as to her dream’s validity. And it was absolutely vital to convince him. If she were right, if indeed this dream were prophetic, she must at all costs do whatever she could to prevent such a future from unfolding. For her sake, for his. For Jon’s and Rickon’s and so many others. She still could not see how Petyr could ever make such foolish mistakes (for indeed, as far as her dream had told her, he had made a very grave mistake, in trusting that Ramsay Bolton would be a suitable match, even temporarily. She hadn’t seen any indications to prove it had been anything other than a very alarming error in judgement, on his part. Which, certainly, while it was a mark against his intelligence and forethought, at least meant that he hadn’t meant to hurt her, ever, which she felt the lesser of two evils, and a comfort, against the horror she’d had to bear). But if he had, or would ever make such terrible errors in judgement, she needed to prevent them. They needed to prevent them.

But first she actually had to tell him what she’d seen.

Sansa cleared her throat, steadied her nerve. Looked directly into his eyes. “I want to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth. Will you give me that? Will you be honest with me?”

“Have I ever not been honest with you?”

Sansa held his gaze. “You’ve kept things from me.” 

Petyr inclined his head slightly, even as he retained eye contact, the only acknowledgement he would give. It was enough. She continued. “Are you, or are you not, planning to wed me to the Bolton bastard?”

His brow creased, eyes flashing with genuine surprise, genuine confusion. It heartened her. “The Bolton bastard?”

“Ramsay Snow. Apparently he is to be legitimized. The Boltons hold Winterfell, at present, as I know you are well aware.”

“Yes. But as to a marriage contract between yourself and a Bolton of any rank, I am afraid you’re quite mistaken. What ever would give you such an idea? What purpose could I have, arranging such a thing?”

He was saying all of the right things, and quite believably too. But did she believe him? “To give me Winterfell.” 

His lips shifted in amusement. “You think I plan to give you Winterfell.”

Sansa faltered. “Don’t you?”

Those lips pursed, eyes shining. “Perhaps. But as to such an idea of obtaining it, I assure you, there are better ways. Where did you even come by such a notion?”

Emboldened by this, and yet feeling too weak to continue sitting up, especially while she recounted the whole of her dream (or at least as much as she felt comfortable telling him, at present), she sank back against her pillows. He watched her with attentive curiosity, and when she struggled to quite form the words she needed while having him look at her in such a way, she found herself staring instead up at the ceiling as she talked. She told him everything, excepting his conversation with her beneath the heart tree at Winterfell, and the events of the day of his death. The former she was too embarrassed to speak of, and the latter was too difficult to even recall in such detail as was needed. 

As for her treatment in Ramsay’s hands, she trembled while she spoke of it, and didn’t linger on the subject any longer than was necessary to ensure him of her great suffering, or any longer than she could bear. Other than Petyr’s death, even more so, in fact, what Ramsay had done to her in her dream had deeply affected her. And she wouldn’t have talked of it at all (or been able to), were it not for the distinction that it hadn’t happened to her yet, and perhaps never would, and for the fact that Petyr needed to know exactly how badly he’d miscalculated, how badly his mistake had affected her.

He listened without interrupting once, and though she did not look at him throughout the entire speech, and could not say how exactly he was taking it, she felt him shift upon the bed, heard his breath catch more than once. He was affected. Even if he did not believe her yet, he clearly was shocked that she had had such a dream. 

When she was finally finished, silence reigned for longer than she would have liked. Until finally, finally, he spoke, his voice hesitant, in a way that made her drop her gaze from the ceiling to look at him. So unlike him, she thought, to show any sign of weakness. It gave her hope that she was beginning to see him as he really was, and not as the man he showed the world. “Well, that dream certainly doesn’t put me in a great light, now does it? I had thought you thought better of me than that.”

“I do.” She was quick to say it, and the words tasted true on her tongue. She really did. The Petyr she had dreamed of wasn’t the same man she had come to know. He wasn’t the same man she had begun to… care for. 

Did she care for him? It seemed undeniable, especially now. If she didn’t care for him, then the dream would not have affected her so. His death would not have affected her so. And she would not have felt so betrayed. Even the Sansa she’d seen in her dream, altered as she was, had clearly cared for him. 

“So then, why ask me about whether I’ve arranged such a marriage for you?” 

His voice was light, but she could tell that it was a feigned lightness — he didn’t like that she didn’t trust him, despite the fact that he’d told people before how unwise it was to do so. Knowing this made her hesitant to respond. “Because…. Because other things in the dream were of the past. Things I hadn’t known before.” 

Amusement flickered briefly in his grey green eyes. “Then how do you know they’re true?”

He had a point. Well then, she’d simply ask him. “Before you betrayed my father — ” he opened his mouth to object but she held up a hand. “Before you betrayed him, he tried to help him, didn’t you?” she continued. “Or, at least, advised him against what he planned to do. You wanted him to try and stay on as Hand of the King, and mold Joffrey to his purpose. Or, failing that, to ally with Renly. Did you not?” Still, he didn’t speak. And yet a glimmer of something in his eyes told her she had him thinking. “But in the end, my father persisted, so you promised to purchase the loyalty of the Gold Cloaks for him. Though my father, noble and honest as he always was, was hesitant to even ask such a thing.”

Petyr regarded her carefully before taking her hand in his, smoothing a thumb along her knuckles in a characteristically soothing manner that had rather the opposite effect. She was distracted for a moment by the increased beat of her heart, and by the feel of his skin bare against hers, before his words brought her back to the moment at hand. “If this is your proof, you’re quite on your mark, I admit, sweetling. But it could still all be merely conjecture on your part, helped along with castle gossip.”

“With such accuracy?” Here he was quiet again. “I could relate the conversation to you verbatim, if you wish,” she persisted. “I think I remember that part of my dream well enough.” She paused. “I also remember a few other conversations. Including one with Varys. Your speech about how chaos is a ladder was quite captivating.” 

Bran had brought up that very speech, in her dream. Had said those very words to Petyr. Her speaking them now had quite a similar effect on Petyr now as they had when Bran said them in her dream, though there was less terror in his eyes now and more of disbelief, of realization, of his whole worldview shifting to incorporate what she had told him tonight, what his future self might have done, and his fate — though, she hadn’t told him that part yet, had she? She wasn’t sure she could do it. Relating everything else had been bad enough, but telling him of how she’d orchestrated his death? How he’d told her he loved her, humiliated in front of everyone, and she’d still sentenced him to die? Her cheeks burned just to think of it, and she turned away from him, pulling her hand free of his.

He cleared his throat and changed tack, clearly discomfited by what she had said. "I am sorry, that you had such a dream. No wonder you woke up so frightened.” He paused, clearing his throat again. “I hope though, that you will not hold anything I've done to you in a dream against me?" Here his voice took on a softness she was unused to, and there was almost something of pleading in it. It reminded her again of her dream, of having him at her mercy. It seemed just hearing about her dream had put him in a similar place. Which boded well for him believing her, she thought. 

As to whether she’d hold what she’d seen in her dream against him…. She considered the question carefully, before finally replying, "I wouldn't, unless it held some truth."

"Which is why you asked me whether I’d arranged the marriage." Not a question, but she nodded anyway. He took her hand again, this time between both of his own. "Do you believe me?"

Did she? "I don't know." She wanted to. But the dream had felt very much like what could be, what would be, if she didn't stop it. She didn't know how or why such things would come to pass, but she desperately didn't want them to come to fruition. "Do you believe me?"

"That your dream was prophetic?" He sighed, shaking his head slightly. "I believe that you believe it is." She frowned — how could he not believe her, after everything she’d said to prove her case? But he smiled. "It doesn't matter whether I believe it or not, sweetling. Whether the dream was prophetic or not, you had it. You told me of it. I will not do anything to steer our lives towards such a course. Nor will you, I'm sure."

"But how can you be sure you won't?"

"Your marriage to Ramsay certainly seems to be the catalyst. Surely so long as you avoid such an arrangement, you'll be safe, at least, from the horrors you suffered at his hand." A pause. "You do not seem satisfied." His eyes narrowed. "What haven't you told me? What else happened in your dream?"

Sansa looked away. "I can't...."

His hands tightened on hers. "You can't what?"

She shook her head, tears threatening. "I can't relive it again. Even to tell you."

He shifted closer on the bed, tugging gently on her hands, urging her to look at him again. "Relive what?"

"You died!" The words burst out, unbidden. "I was angry with you, you betrayed me, tried to manipulate me. There was a trial, or rather a mockery of one, really. And my sister...." She choked on a sob, and couldn't go on.

"Arya?"

She nodded mutely, tears streaming down her face.

His hands released hers, and it felt as if he’d been silent for hours before he finally asked, voice quiet, and almost (dare she think it?), unsteady, "How did I betray you?"

Sansa shook her head again, her words difficult through her tears. "You tried to turn me against Arya. And I chose her." She turned angrily to him, her hands fisting in the blanket spread over her lap. "I shouldn't have had to choose. You shouldn't have done that."

"I didn't," he protested, the carefully guarded expression he usually wore a mere memory now — he was shaken. Alarmed. She’d never seen him so uncollected, and it only served to further upset her.

"But you did!" Her face screwed up and she cried harder, fighting against him at first as he pulled her back into his arms, then bawling into his shoulder while he gently rocked her. "And then, the worst of it," she continued, hardly knowing what she was saying, or why, "is that you waited until then to finally tell me you loved me. You'd hinted at it before, but only when you had nothing else to lose did you actually confide in me. I cared for you, and you gave me away like I was nothing, you ruined me, and still, not until I was ready to do the same to you, did you open up to me. And it was too late, and everything is horrible and nothing will ever be all right again. I will never be all right again. It was too late, and I hate you for that. I hate you for what you've done to me. I hate you."

She kept repeating those last three words until they ran together, until they sounded so much more like “I love you” than “I hate you,” and all the while he held her and stroked her hair and whispered something against her skin that very much sounded like “I love you” too. 

Sansa cried that day until she fell asleep again, and when she woke (from a dreamless sleep) he was still holding her close. They never spoke of the dream again, but each let it guide their actions from then on. She did not marry Ramsay, and neither Sansa nor Petyr betrayed the other as they worked together to regain Winterfell in her name and to survive the coming winter. And when spring came again, and Westeros was ruled by fire and ice, by dragon and wolf, and all was settled beyond the wall, Sansa chose Petyr for her husband, a marriage unarranged by anybody but herself, and she was happy, they were both happy, something neither had ever thought they’d ever be again.

Perhaps the dream had only been a dream, after all. Or perhaps she had seen the future and changed it more to her liking. Either way, it didn’t matter. She’d gotten what she wanted, in the end. And so had he. And they were both the better for it, in every possible way.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been awhile, hasn't it? I've missed you all <333\. And I haven't given up on fic, nor on my long ongoing fics. You probably won't ever see me as active as I was, but I hope to be more active now than I have been for some time. Hope you enjoy the fic, and as always every comment, kudos, bookmark, and subscription is most appreciated <333
> 
> (apologies if I take forever to respond to comments, I still have some outstanding ones to get to... I read and treasure them all, I promise, just I have a lot I'm dealing with lately)


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